Weeks of rationed portions had taken its toll on John’s muscular endurance. In no time, his arms began to spasm, and his triceps threatened to give out. With no other options, John found his hand doing what his brain knew was his only remaining hope. John released the awkward placement of his right hand, slid one forearm into the zombie’s throat, and thrust his available fingers into the exposed section of brain, furiously grinding at the tissue. At first, there was no visible effect, and so John forced his whole fist into Moto’s skull, deeper and deeper until the corpse dropped lifelessly on top of him.
John made no attempt to remove the dead weight and stayed motionless but for his heavy breathing. The ending of Pearl Jam’s “Black” played on from Moto’s phone in a repeating ditty of guitar, piano, and vocals with equal parts beauty and ferocity. John focused on the music until his breathing became too labored, and he pressed against Moto’s head and rolled the lifeless body away. After a long moment to absorb what had just occurred, John’s brain was finally able to recognize the pain throbbing all along his arm. A quick glance confirmed that some red blood was pouring out from his wrist and blending with the black. The song grew even more intense. Sharp pieces of Moto’s cranium had gashed John open, no doubt exposing him to the infectious blood. The cut went straight along his largest vein, and the brothers’ blood spiraled in a growing pool on the floor between them.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
John awoke to blackness and nothing but the sound of his own breathing. After some time to process, he realized that he must be on the bunker’s cot. He bent his arm to push up to a seated position, but stopped after feeling something like an IV poking him.
“Oh, thank God,” Brooke whispered softly. “I wasn’t sure if I was saving you or finishing you off.”
“You made me an IV?” John forced the words from his dry, raspy throat.
“More or less, given the materials we have.”
“We need to bury Moto.”
“It’s already done.”
“You have to tie me up.”
“You’re gonna be fine.”
“His blood was all over my cut.”
“It doesn’t infect everyone.”
The dialogue ended when John’s consciousness abruptly left him again. When he re-awakened, he felt even worse despite Brooke’s best efforts to nurse him back to health. His limbs felt twice as heavy, and simply summoning the strength to lift his head required his full focus. He was happy to see that Brooke and Hillary were apparently carrying on just as before but feared that his fate might also seal theirs. Despite his constant pleas for Brooke to restrain him, she couldn’t bring herself to admit that he was not going to recover from his infection. She was right in that he did gain some strength back once his body was able to replace some of the lost blood, but he had no doubt that his time was drawing to a close.
John continued to sleep for longer spans than he could manage to stay awake. In the times that he was awake, John would try to gain peace from the knowledge that Brooke was making the right decisions for the sake of the girls. Though she wouldn’t admit it, John knew that the food supply had to be dwindling, even with only two people’s rations. After a vivid dream consisting mostly of childhood memories, John called Brooke to his bedside.
“Listen. After I’m gone or we run out of food or whatever, there’s a place you should go,” John started.
“John, you’re not going anywhere.”
“Please, just listen,” he continued. “I can’t believe I hadn’t thought about it before, but this dream just reminded me. As kids, mom used to send Moto and me to this outdoorsy boys’ camp nearby. They’ve got rifles, secure buildings, fences, food, water, everything you could ever need. The gas might even still work. Just get back on the highway, going toward the French Broad, and keep going until you hit exit sixty-six. You can’t miss it. There’s a huge, white cross built up on the mountain.”
“John, we’re fine here.”
“What’s the exit?” John wanted confirmation.
“Sixty-six,” Brooke responded.
“You know what’s crazy?” John laid his head back to the pillow and stared at the ceiling. “If this outbreak had never happened, I never would’ve met you. Guarantee it. I never would’ve seen your face.”
“You can’t possibly know that for sure,” Brooke said. “I’d like to think our paths would’ve crossed regardless.”
“You really believe that?” John asked.
“I just don’t want to picture my life without ever having met you,” Brooke said. “I wouldn’t trade knowing you.”
“Even if that life would’ve been with your family--and no outbreak?” John joked. “That’s pretty damn selfish.”
“Well, if you include the promise of warm showers; yeah, maybe I could get by without knowing you,” Brooke smiled.
John laughed briefly before succumbing to a violent bout of coughing. Blood trickled out from one nostril. Brooke’s mouth still showed a smile, but her eyes showed something else. John knew that she knew he wasn’t going to make it. Despite that, she still did nothing to protect herself and Hillary from him. John knew that she would stay here with him until the food was gone. Her only chance at survival was to pack up a bag with what was left and find another place with resources. As much as he hated Moto for giving up, John decided in that moment that he too would have to sneak out unannounced.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
Once outside, John reflected, for hours on end, on the letter he’d left behind. Given the chance, he’d take out some of the advice and fluff and include more encouragement and love, but that opportunity was gone. John was committed, and he wasn’t ever going back. He had chanced a kiss for each of the sleeping girls on his way out. That detail gave him some warmth on his lonely trek through the woods.
John’s mind began to betray him, and he’d lose focus and just wander, pacing his steps to the rhythm of Moto’s song as it played on in his head. Sometimes, John would almost re-awaken to realize that he had no idea where he was going or what he was doing. His constant tripping on unseen roots and fallen branches became a given. He had brought almost nothing along with him, for fear that any amount he took might prove critical to the girls’ survival--though they had more left than they could ever carry.
John stopped to rest against an evergreen, providing a space to sit without being completely overwhelmed by the falling snow. He fumbled the matchbook from his pocket and found that the moisture had already ruined the only item he’d allowed himself to bring. He was startled awake to the sound of a whippoorwill’s call and then to the crunch of snow as someone walked by very close to him. He had devoured the one, stale breakfast bar he had allowed himself before sleeping and now realized that he actually felt considerably stronger. Still, he didn’t want to chance an encounter. John stayed silent as the zombie walked just past his tree, tripping constantly in the deep snow. The zombie had been hacked with a machete or some sort of blade, the neck cut all the way down to its spine. Each time it tripped in the deep snow, John thought the head might fall off completely. Fortunately, the wanderer never caught his scent or heavy breathing and continued on without incident.
After realizing his condition had improved despite the cold and the lack of rest, John began to think for the first time that perhaps Brooke was right all along. His only pains now were more a result of the stiffness from the cold and the constant aching in his empty stomach. John wondered if he could make it back to the shelter and into bed before the girls had awoken to find his note.
It wasn’t long before Timber appeared out of nowhere up ahead. John was anxious to pet the dog, but it stayed several feet ahead of him, impatiently leading John back to the hatch. John laughed to himself when he realized how short of a distance he’d actually covered and was back to the shelter’s clearing in no time.
Once there, it was obvious that the girls were preparing to move on. Brooke was climbing out of the hatch, swinging another pack of necessities
into their pile on the ground. She continued working for a while, not noticing that John was back. Even after Timber had run up to her anxiously barking and circling, Brooke took no notice. John was able to take several steps forward before Brooke finally looked up to see that he’d returned. Brooke froze upon seeing him, as if she didn’t know which emotion to display. She didn’t smile, and didn’t speak, but just stared.
John felt his chapped lips break apart as he smiled to Brooke who still stood motionless. Was she mad that he’d left her with nothing but a letter? He called out to her, unsure what words would be appropriate, but only a grumble from his strained vocal cords escaped as his greeting.
Without warning, a gun’s report echoed through the trees, before being quickly absorbed by the thick blanket of snow. Seeing that Brooke held no gun, John cursed to himself that someone must be close. He soon realized, though, that the shot had been directed at him. Across the clearing stood Hillary, pistol raised. John was relieved to see that she was crying. He thanked God that she’d realized her mistake before taking a more accurate shot. Her aim didn’t waver, though. The older looking Hillary instead held the gun firmly pointed at him still. She even raised the barrel slightly as she stepped forward, aiming straight toward his face.
John looked down to find that her first shot had actually not missed its mark. He pressed his palm against his belly and pulled it back to reveal the gaping wound…
And the blood ran black.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
-Epilogue-
The last gunshot had left Brooke frozen and numb. It had taken three more shots before one of Hillary’s bullets had finally found its target, and the zombie lay motionless in the snow. Brooke was surprised at the deafening silence that followed the echoing blast. No dogs barked, no birds sang, and neither of the girls dared to breathe. She didn’t remember bending her knees, but Brooke found herself seated where she’d previously stood. She stared, glossy-eyed, waiting for John to somehow return to her. Timber crept up to the lifeless corpse and lay patiently next to John’s deceased form. Hillary cried where she stood, sobbing such that she struggled to catch a breath. She expected Brooke to comfort her, but no comfort was offered. It wasn’t until she began to shake from the bitter cold that Brooke finally snapped out of her shock. The relentless rumbling of her stomach seemed like nothing more than a frivolous detail. Hillary’s needs were just another strand in all the world’s chaotically woven web. The most minute task now seemed insurmountable to Brooke as she pondered her next action. How many more days could her best efforts really buy? Maybe it would be doing Hillary a favor if they both just sat until the cold took them.
It amazed Brooke that the world kept carrying on as if nothing had happened. The snowfall ceased, and the sun even poked out from between clouds during its descent, uncaring and unfazed. She couldn’t think of anyone else outside their intimate circle of trees that cared in the least that John was gone forever. She didn’t even have a picture to remember him by. She was alone, and she was disgusted by the world’s ability to spin on, completely undeterred. Even after the sun had settled into its slumber, the moon appeared and shined more brilliantly than seemed appropriate. How dare Brooke continue to breathe. How dare the moon shine. How dare the snow reflect its light so purely. How dare John leave her.
When nothing remained, Brooke picked up all that she could carry and set out walking for the now infamous Exit 66. Hillary followed just behind, and the journey continued on without apology. Timber sensed Brooke’s anger and elected to walk alongside Hillary instead, daring not to whine because of his hunger. Just when Brooke began to question whether she could stand the cold any longer, the bite of the winter’s winds relented slightly. Eventually, the thought of giving up didn’t seem much easier than simply continuing to place one foot in front of the other. Somehow, they carried on and continued East down I-40.
After days of enduring hunger cramps and numb feet, Brooke looked up to find Exit 66 but felt no relief at the sight. The sign had been spray-painted with an extra 6 and looked like anything but a place where they could find solace. Hillary had long ago ceased to talk without provocation, and Brooke knew that they had to find food and shelter if the girl was to maintain some semblance of sanity.
Inside the camp was a sign that read, “God give us hills to climb and the strength to climb them.”
“Please, God, no more hills,” Brooke thought to herself. Further into the camp she found nothing but the shells of buildings burnt long ago. One shelter had some remaining walls of stone still standing with crude, hand-written poetry next to a broken toilet. After some encouragement from Hillary, they climbed up more winding trails to find one building marked Trailblazer Inn that still stood proudly. Inside was a locked cabinet filled with canned goods, breakfast drinks, and beef jerky.
The girls ate until their stomachs ached with a new type of pain and slept comfortably for the first time in too long. Early the next morning, Brooke awoke to find a neglected, battery operated alarm clock. She put the heavy batteries she’d been carrying to good use and brought the clock to life with a flashing 12:00. She sat patiently turning from channel to channel with the dated radio dial. Even finding a bit of static that sounded slightly different from the rest brought Brooke some hope that there might be music floating through the radio waves, but she reached the dial’s end with no luck. She decided to cycle back through the stations once more, slower this time. To her surprise, when the dial reached 105.3, a voice rang out clearly through the brittle, old speakers.
“… in downtown Asheville. We are located in the old BB&T tower, which has survived the airstrikes. Anyone hearing this message is encouraged to join us in our effort to rebuild.”
The recording went on to specify what types of professions were especially needed and what actions to take upon reaching the gate in order to be allowed in.
Brooke allowed Hillary to sleep until she awoke on her own. She found some old mountain bikes in a small shed at the base of the hill, and the girls continued down the highway to Asheville. Hillary wasn’t able to ride the tall bike but could coast on the downhills by balancing on one pedal.
Torrential rains attacked the girls as they rode but also assisted in the melting of the snow. Brooke was confident that she’d survive the journey but began to worry that Hillary might be approaching her limit. In Swannanoa, she was proven right when Hillary took a hard fall while coasting down a large hill. From there, they abandoned some of their supplies and Hillary’s bike. Brooke carried what remained in her pack and pushed Hillary along on the remaining bicycle. As Brooke walked Hillary down another of the unending mountains, a break in the clouds appeared and gave way to a brilliant rainbow. At the base of the mountain range, the windows of Asheville’s downtown reflected in the sun’s glow.
Brooke stopped at the tower’s chain link gate and lowered all of her weapons and baggage. As the radio had instructed, she located the box of road flares and lit one to signal the watchmen. A man came out to inspect her and Hillary for bites and indicated the OK to a sniper in a makeshift tower.
“What about Timber?” Hillary asked.
“Aren’t you gonna check the dog?” Brooke asked the man.
“He has to stay out here. You can visit him at the fence later if you’d like,” the man answered without eye contact.
Hillary frowned and ducked down to hug Timber around the neck and kissed him for as long as the guard would wait.
The girls were escorted down a winding trail that weaved in and out of torched cars and fallen trees before arriving at the building’s luxurious lobby where a whale of a man opened the door.
“Now what in the hell took you two so long?”
Only then did Brooke allow herself to comprehend seeing Sprite’s smiling face, tears in his eyes. She noticed him glance past her, she assumed, for John and Moto. She answered him with just a shaking of her head before he could ask. When more tears welled up in the man’s eyes, Brooke lost her composure and
clung to Sprite with all of her strength. Brooke wasn’t confident that she’d be able to keep herself from sobbing until Hillary lunged in to share their hug--her hold around their legs all but toppling them over. Before their embrace had ended, a grossly disfigured man appeared and introduced himself. Brooke knew that Hillary was staring at the man’s shriveled skin where an ear should be and prayed that the man didn’t take offense. There was a hint of an accent, but the Chinese man’s English was surprisingly smooth.
“Welcome, ladies! We’re so glad that you found your way to us,” the man said. “Sprite here will help you get situated with us, and we’ll just save the indoctrination for after you’re fed and well-rested.”
Sprite lifted Hillary high off the ground after the scarred man had turned to leave. “I’m so glad y’all finally showed up! You’re all I’ve been able to think about.”
“You have some explaining to do, jerk!” Brooke slapped Sprite on the shoulder just hard enough to hurt her own hand.
“Well, I know I’ve got great answers to your questions, but I just can’t wait to hear what your stories are like. I can’t imagine what kept you.”
And the Blood Ran Black Page 26